Living in His Shadow
by George Plutarch
Summary: JOHNLOCK fic. There's something wrong with John. Can Sherlock figure it out before the good doctor leaves him...for his own good? Vamp!John fic, i got the idea from tumblr and decided to see where it went. comment if you think i should continue. Or follow, that works too
1. Chapter 1

It was the perfect hiding place. The one place he was guaranteed to never be found. Perhaps the only way he was safe. For a time. Always only for a time.  
For now, John was in a very good position.  
The good doctor was currently stood in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, watching his eccentric flat mate run a series of experiments on pieces of a cadaver that he'd taken from the mortuary at St Bart's. John wrinkled his nose at the fingers, ignoring the curl of his lip as he turned away.  
"Sherlock, what precisely are you looking for?" he asked carefully, hoping to find out why there were not only fingers on the table but an ear in the sugar bowl and a fresh jar of eye balls in the freezer. Sherlock threw a condescending glance over his shoulder at the smaller man.  
"I'm simply running test to see a myriad of different ideas that op into my head, John, get used to it." John sighed, making his way with his cuppa into the living room and sinking into his red chair. Nothing in the newspaper seemed interesting, so he moved to open his laptop and type on their latest case.  
As John typed, he silently thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock refused to believe in the even vaguely supernatural. The case on the Hound of Baskerville had almost broken that in him, and it would have meant moving on for his favorite sidekick. He very much did not want to start a new life just yet. He rather liked living next to Sherlock. Living in shadow was far from new for him, so living in someone else's shadow was only an easier way to get by.  
The detective in question grumbled as his phone pinged, demanding that John get up and fetch his phone for him. It was on the table at his elbow.  
"Read it to me," the younger man sighed, not taking his eyes off the scopes of the microscope, a slide having captured his attention completely.  
"It says 'got a case, seems weird, you might appreciate. Grisly, come at once. 2373 Northumberland Street apt 32 –Lestrade.' Are you going to take it?" John asked, looking out the window. It was dark. He was hungry, having hoped all day for a quiet night that he could go for a walk, alone.  
"Yes. Don't answer him, I'll show up there in a bit." Sherlock looked up at John, brow furrowing. "Do you not want me to?" he asked, showing an odd amount of concern. John furrowed his brow in return, bristling.  
"No, I um...I was just hoping for a quiet night is all," he sighed, turning back to the table to put Sherlock's phone down before he wandered off to find his shoes and shooting coat.  
"Hello, Lestrade." He heard Sherlock's voice echoing down the hall, rumbling baritone attempting to be quiet. John paused, his shoe half on his foot. "I don't think I can come tonight, unless it is particularly necessary?" Another pause. "Then send the report and the body to Molly, I'll look into it in the morning." The click of Sherlock shutting his phone made John smile. He finished putting his things on anyway, determined to go out and return before Sherlock knew he was gone. It was usually pretty easy when the younger man was wrapped up in his hobbies. However disturbing they were.  
The doctor walked out into the main area, throwing his coat on and patting down his pockets. He felt eyes on him and turned around.  
"Where are you going? I just ditched a case because you wanted to stay in!" he fussed.  
"I didn't say that I was staying in, I said I wanted a quiet night. I need to run out for a minute; I'll be right back." The lie was pathetic, and Sherlock saw right through it, but he shrugged it off and left anyway. As John walked down the stairs and out the door he could feel the lingering thought form Sherlock's mind following him like a vice, wondering. Sherlock never could leave a good mystery unsolved. John hoped desperately that he'd leave this one alone, before it broke them both.

Sherlock moved from his place on the stool in the kitchen, running across the living room to the window. He wondered terribly what John was up to. The older man had been unbearably clingy lately, almost drowning Sherlock in affection as if he felt like the younger man was the only thing keeping him afloat. Sherlock shuddered, peeking out the window onto the wet street below. John was walking across, ducking into an alley almost a block down. The detective's eyes narrowed. He rolled his eyes and went to get his great coat.  
The game was on.

* * *

A/N: comment if you think i should elaborate. it will get filthy and graphic, knowing me.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:: hello all and thanks for your support! this one is kind of a playground for me, so i'm posting little baby chapters and trying to get them up quickly for you, especially when i see interest rising. hope you enjoy! more soon, probably by the end of the week!**

* * *

Sherlock went out, diving down the same alley way that he'd just seen John go into. The detective could feel the pull in his abdomen at the thought of the chase, his curiosity knowing no bounds of mere danger or stupidity when it came to solving the impossible. He continued into the dark, stepping lightly, keeping to the shadows. He'd left his coat behind on a second thought, not willing to have the rustling behind him as he tracked a tracker. He was in nothing but sweat pants and an old ratty t-shirt; lounging clothes. John had been to enticing a target for him to bother with getting dressed; the head start that would have given would have been impossible to catch.

The younger man found the older about three streets away. Sherlock froze when his mind processed what he was seeing.

It looked like John was kissing someone, had the other man pinned up against the stone wall of a flat and everything. Sherlock's stomach lurched. _Wasn't that supposed to be me?_ He thought, a split second before his mask slid back into place. He slid further into the shadow and observed.

Upon further inspection, he noticed that John wasn't really kissing the person, but rather their neck. And the other male seemed to like it. They were moaning a bit and writhing, fists clutching the elbows of John's favorite shooting jacket. The old army veteran had one hand cupping the man's head, holding it a bit to the side, the other planted on the wall behind them. He face was hidden by the man's neck, but he was facing Sherlock.

When the caress broke, Sherlock had to blink twice to clear the image from his reddened vision. What the hell was this emotion?

Fuck! If John wanted to go on snogging people in public then he could do it without Sherlock! He for one was not interested, if this was what John thought of in their "quiet nights" without the case. The detective left the scene, thinking of hailing a cab and going to Northumberland Street anyway. John would never know, he was too busy finding other people to be with than him.

No. with a heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock headed back to Baker Street, to hole himself in his room until he simply had to leave it. He stopped along the way to buy three packs of cigarettes and did just that. Went to his room, locked the door, and opened the window. He was going to sit on the ledge and chain smoke until he or John broke down that door. And it wasn't going to be him.

John came home about half an hour later, wet from the drizzle that had interrupted his walk. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, having apparently locked himself in his room for the evening. John shrugged and flipped on the telly, turning it to BBC One and finding some filth to watch for a bit. He wasn't quite tired yet, but the meal would have slowed him down. He'd be tired soon.

He woke a few hours later to a bit of shuffling, and looked around in the blackness to see Sherlock walking around in only a set of navy briefs. His brow furrowed, the question on the tip of his tongue when the younger man turned and looked at the chair. He couldn't see John as well as John could see him, which was perfectly, but he knew that John was there. The older man had the feeling that Sherlock had just flipped off the TV.

They sat there for the span of a few breaths before Sherlock snorted frustratedly and stomped into his bedroom, once again slamming the door. John was puzzled, but the habits of Sherlock Holmes were far from ordinary or predictable. That was why he preferred living here, wasn't it? He didn't have to act normal; Sherlock would do the weird things and he could hide behind that flawless façade. Perfect.

The sleuth went back into his room and lit another cigarette. Surely John could smell them? Why wasn't he coming in and snatching it away from him? Maybe he didn't care anymore.

"No, that couldn't be it," he mumbled, chewing on his lip once before sucking the tar back into his lungs. Sweet pain, he thought, letting the smoke sit in his chest for a moment. John had cared about him and his habits through the stupidest and the most promising of girlfriends. Why would some guy in an alley make him more distracted? It wouldn't. Sherlock sighed. Pressing the lit end of the smoke to his window ledge. He almost aimed it at is forearm, but John would see and get angry.

He did so many things for that man.

So many boring things.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock woke next to his mobile on the bed, having slept through the entire night rather oddly. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked at the text. It was from Lestrade; a new case. Body found in an alley, please come at once. No blood, no wounds. How delightful.

He got out of bed and stretched, padding through his room to gather clothing and call up to John on his way to the shower. To his surprise, the man was already in the bathroom, shaving.

"Morning," John said, dragging the blade down his skin, nicking off tiny hairs in its wake. The younger man pulled face, rubbing his cheeks again. He would shave tomorrow.

"We have a case a few streets away. Body, no blood, no wounds. Male," he narrowed his eyes, thinking of the address Lestrade had sent him. It was close to where John had been snogging that fellow. Hatred roiled deep within his belly. "Please go, I need to shower," he growled, pushing John and his razor out of the bathroom entirely. John stood on the other side of the door, dumbstruck. He looked at the closed door for a second before he heard to lock click, and the sound of the shower curtain being drawn shut.

"Sherlock, can't I shave while you're in there? It's not like I'll look!" he called, getting no reply. He didn't really expect one. The man had woken up obviously in a mood. Ugh. He got a mug of hot water and went down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's level, using the small mirror in the hall to finish his shave. He was glad for a moment that Sherlock was in a mood, which usually meant that he didn't solve the case straight away. Not that he would, anyway. John had gotten lazy on this one. Well, a mix of lazy and tired of having his flat mate up his arse bored all the time, destroying the flat and laying waste to everything John wrote and admired.

He'd given the man a body.

* * *

Sherlock stood over the man, face wrinkled in disgust.

Forty-three, cheating on his wife, three kids, low income. He had halitosis, back hair and probably Iranian or Syrian ancestry.

This…_this_ was the man John had been kissing? _WHAT?_ Sherlock felt his hands clench into fists unwittingly as he knelt next to the body. Greg had been right, he admitted begrudgingly. No wounds, not even a scratch, and yet he had no blood. Sherlock put a gloved hand on the man's shoulder, hauling him up so that he could see his back side. Nope, no blood pooling there. He'd been found half-under the dumpster. He never would have been stuffed under there, for he was fat and the dumpster only had about a twenty-centimeter gap under it. Right then. Someone would have had to have lifted it.

How did the man wind up dead after snogging John in the alley? Certainly his half-crippled little army doctor couldn't have drained is blood without any marks and then lifted a trash bin on him? Sherlock shook the thought out of his head. Absurd. He chanced a glance back at the man in question. John was standing there, hand behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels just like he had the first crime they solved together, looking around innocently enough. The night that he had been the killer.

The sleuth's eyes narrowed. He stood up, facing Lestrade.

"Get the body to Molly's ward, I'll look over it later. Nothing to report right now, except that whoever did it was strong and has type o-negative blood welled up somewhere. His wallet is in his pocket for ID, it wasn't a robbery." The detective inspector looked at Sherlock, shocked for a second. For the first time, he actually didn't have the answer immediately? Sherlock snapped off his gloves and strode away, past John and into the main street.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: HI GUUUYYSSSSSSSS :) AS A FEW OF YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED, I CHANGED MY NAME. IT'S NO BIGGIE, I JUST INVENTED A PARTICULARLY RIVETING CHARACTER AND I WANTED TO SHARE HER NAMESAKE. YEAH, IT'S A GIRL. HOPEFULLY (FOR ALL OF US) I'LL BE RELEASING HER INTO THE WILD SOON IN HER OWN STORY WITH SHERLOCK. IT WON'T BE A JOHNLOCK IF I DO. SORREEEEEEEEEEEEE. NOT. BECAUSE SHE'S AMAZING FOR HIM. ANYWAY, I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS LITTLE SPAT OF DOMESTICY SMUT AND FILTH, AND I HOPE THAT YOU'RE AS FRUSTRATED IN THE END AS WELL...YOU KNOW. **

**ENJOY-**

_**PLUTO**_

* * *

Once back at Baker Street, Sherlock slammed the door behind the two of them and flopped into his grey chair. After a minute or so of fiddling about with the old Hobbs, John came and sat across from him in the red chair. He balanced his cuppa on his knee, having brought it and some biscuits on to the room with him. Sherlock was in a thinking mood, and thus was deathly silent. John felt it was high time to indulge on a bit of a snack while he waited.  
"Did you kill that man, John?" the detective asked, making the good doctor pause for half a breath with a biscuit halfway between his tea cup and his mouth. "Don't bother answering, that was good enough." Sherlock clasped his hands to the arm rests of his chair, biting his bottom lip like he did when he was on the verge of an unpleasant discovery.  
"How?" Silence. John wasn't even breathing—not that he had to. But Sherlock didn't need to know that bit quite yet. If ever.  
He cleared his throat. "I'm not really…inclined to tell you." John admitted. If he said that he didn't do it, Sherlock would cite ten things he missed on the site of the dump and make him look stupid before demanding the real answer. This was easier, in a sense. Those pale eyes narrowed on him, worse than daggers.  
"What did I miss?" he asked instead, going back to dunking his digestive. They were at their best when soaked in PG Tips, he had discovered. Delicious.  
"First, you were making the same face on this scene that you were on our first scene together. Do you remember?" Sherlock asked, crossing his legs. He was getting impatient; why didn't people just admit things? Although he did love the puzzle, and it made him even giddier that John of all people was the one who put the body there, strange as it seemed to admit.  
John sighed. "When I shot the cabbie?" Sherlock nodded. "So? It's my face, I can make it look like I want to,"  
"No, John. Some people can control their face flawlessly. You are not one of those. You looked like you were trying to play innocent, swaying back and forth on your feet like that. Foolish. Tell me how," he demanded, letting his voice drop a register. John hesitated for a microsecond in his move to set his mug down, his submissive side kicking in. Good. Give up the goods. Sherlock's eyes narrowed again, watching every breath like a hawk.  
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, just go and figure it out yourself," John shook his head, crossing his legs and picking up his laptop. Sherlock froze, a half-snarl curling his lip.  
What about that MAN in the alley? He wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs, rage and stomp around until John finally caved. But he didn't. John gave him the puzzle; he needed to figure it out. He launched out of the grey chair.  
"Going out," he barked, gathering his coat up and throwing his scarf around his neck as he paraded out of the flat. John sighed and nestled back into the armchair, certain that Sherlock was going back to the crime scene now. Good.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the alley, arms at his sides, just looking. Eyes flicking everywhere, over the walls, the dumpster under which the stain from the adipose of the body still marked the cement. Nothing seemed to fit. He calculated that the dumpster, even empty, would take a minimum of two men twice John's physical stature to life, let alone with it being half-full of rubbish. Impossible.  
After you rule out the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be true. He squeezed his eyes shut against the thought.  
There had to be something…something that John was hiding. Was he impossibly strong? How could that be true? He'd had a hell of a time getting his suitcase up the stairs when he moved in, how could an eighty kilo man life a two thousand kilo dumpster enough to wedge a body in, one handed? He had to be strong…but even then the span of human genetics only allows for so much alteration.  
Could it be supernatural? He scoffed at himself, alone in the alley. How stupid. But he still bit his lip, wondering.  
What was eerily strong, needed blood, and could blend in perfectly with society?  
He couldn't even think the word, it was so stupid.  
Sherlock Holmes, perfector of truths and logic, could not be tricked into thinking that his roommate was the impossible.  
A vampire.  
He walked back to the main road, catching a cab to the flat.  
Once there, he threw himself back into the grey chair, refusing to look at John who was in the exact same place as he was three hours ago. Except asleep, a ray of sunshine laying across his face on the cold winter afternoon.  
Vampires can't handle sun….Sherlock shut down the thought before he ran with it, blinking hard to get past it.  
However improbable…. No.  
He had an idea. John knew that Sherlock was on a case, wouldn't be expecting physical contact. The detective smirked, shucking his suit jacket and shoes before unbuttoning the top three buttons of his black shirt and moving over to the red chair. He was lucky that John had narrow hips; else the chair would be too small for this. Not that they'd never tried it before. Sherlock took the laptop off the doctor's lap, setting it gently on the table without a sound.  
Next, he moved back to John, standing in front of him, hands flexing open and closed a few times before he got up the nerve. He still wasn't exactly comfortable with his gangly body, let alone rubbing it all over someone else. He took a deep breath, hitching his shins up between John's thigh and the arm of the chair on either side, so he was straddling the smaller man. John woke with a start, jumping lightly as Sherlock settled in his lap, blinking away bleary eyes.  
"Erm…hello?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock through his lashes. He licked his lips rapidly, like he did when he was flustered. Sherlock felt his own pulse elevate slightly. He liked John better when he was agitated. He was…harsher. He gripped tighter and hit harder.  
Oh, yes John, show me some of that supernatural strength, his mind purred, influencing his hands which cupped John's face, leaning down for a kiss that left the older man blinking and staring stupidly back at him. John's eyes were fixed on his mouth, floating down to his exposed chest every now and then, waiting ever so patiently.  
"Figure out the scene, did you?" he asked quietly, as if he wasn't sure that Sherlock wanted to bring it up.  
"No, need a distraction," the younger man murmured against John's neck, nibbling at the soft skin there, nipping hard where it met his shoulder. John jumped, gasping slightly. In the same move, the detective ground down on John's lap, rubbing against his erection just so.  
"Just a distraction?" John mused, letting his hands settle peaceably on Sherlock's bony hips. He was working little tight figure eights on the doctor's lap, and it was destroying the man's mentality. His breath shook a bit as he tried to focus, but just then the younger man slid down to his knees between John's own, trailing his fingers over John's nipples through the shirt. A low growl slid from between his teeth before he bit it back, pushing his head into the back of the chair and lifting his hips as Sherlock dug his fingers under the waistband of his jeans. Insistent little bugger.  
Sherlock bit his lower lip, letting it slide out from between his teeth as he felt John's hot gaze fall back on him. John liked watching Sherlock do almost anything, especially when it involved touching. Letting his eyes flick back up to meet John's much darker blue ones, Sherlock managed to drag his trousers and pants down over his bum, cock jutting out beautifully up against his stomach. He fisted the organ for a few strokes before licking his lips and swallowing it whole. John bucked up at the sensation, never getting over his partner's ability to deep-throat like a porn star.  
Sherlock worked the older man until he felt the pulse on his tongue, getting ready to come. Then he pulled back, not touching John in any way at all, his hands on his lap, folded neatly. John looked baffled for a second before clenching his jaw.  
"Tell me, John," he growled, inching his hands closer, walking his fingers up John's leg toward his crotch.  
"No, Sherlock, I told you to figure it out. It's your toy now," John groaned, watching those fingers slow down on his knee.  
"Oh, speaking of toys," the younger Holmes said, getting up onto his feet and adjusting himself in his trousers. "I think I'll go find one. Unless you decide to play nice, that is? In which case you can do whatever you want to me after you tell," he paused, halfway to his room to look back at John expectantly, not bothering to fondle himself in any way. John's mouth was already watering just thinking about him naked. But the doctor hadn't moved an inch, cock straining for another touch.  
"Actually, I think I'll go finish in the shower, thanks for getting me started though, love." Then he bloody winked and waltzed upstairs to his bathroom. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot for a minute, not believing that John had just actually walked away. Should he be hurt? No…maybe? He grimaced and stomped into his room, slamming the door shut and throwing himself on the bed.

* * *

_**tell me your damage. **_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:: howdy! sorry, i had a rough week at school and got behind on my updating. but here, have a lot of smut and some feels! warning for explicit man sex and all that includes!**

* * *

**Chapter 4:**

"Oh, yes John, just there," Sherlock moaned, biting his nails into the doctor's skin. He bit his lower lip, dragging his teeth over it to plump it up, eyes firmly shut as John thrust on top of him. The doctor was having a hard time concentrating, and it was anyone's guess why.

Sherlock had managed to get him into bed after no small amount of coercion the next morning. John was far from an early riser, but the detective had snuggled into his bed bright and early pressing kisses absolutely everywhere before John rolled and pinned him to the mattress with his hips. John sensed that he had never slept. Again. That made three nights this week; _god_ he was getting to be worse than John himself. The detective in question was writhing to and fro, moaning as much as he could, and exposing his neck as much as possible. John licked his lips but otherwise kept his mouth firmly shut.

_Bad_ _idea_, he kept musing to himself. If only it would work. He wanted very badly to bite Sherlock, for being a general prick _and_ because he was tormenting the old army vet at the moment. John was sure that Sherlock knew; he just wasn't willing to quite admit it to himself yet.

"God, John, I want you to take me _hard_. _Own_ me, make me _believe_ it!" Sherlock groaned, pounding his fist on the bed beside them before slapping his long hand back over John's ribs. The doctor smirked.

True to form, John thrust up, meeting Sherlock's prostate. He bent his head and allowed himself a small taste...just nibbling lightly at Sherlock's flawless skin with his front two teeth and bottom lip was almost enough to put him over the edge. A real bite and he would explode. Sherlock shifted, winding his hands under the pillow over his head, opening the amount to vulnerability he was showing to new levels. Now John had free range of his whole chest and throat. Totally open.

"Hurt me, John, _please_," he begged, thrashing his head around.

He was being tested after all.

Well, two could play at that game.

John reared back so that he was sitting on his heels and picked up an ankle in each hand, unwrapping them from around his waist to drape over his shoulders. Sherlock was watching him warily. Good. He wrapped a hand around each slender thigh and pulled hard, matching Sherlock's bum up to his hips. Rather than thrusting, he was fully seated, simply grinding into Sherlock in small movements, right against his prostate. The younger man gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth as his eyes flew wide.

"John!" he cried, wriggling to get away from the assault on the oversensitive gland. John smiled wickedly and held him in place with one hand latched over his left hip bone. Super-strength, indeed. After he felt that Sherlock was no longer going to try to get away, the doctor let go of his hip to squeeze the base of his cock, staving off the inevitable orgasm that he could smell boiling under the detective's skin.

"Ugh!" the other man cried, reaching down to try in vain to swat John's hand away. The older man turned his head, ignoring Sherlock as he pressed a kiss to the man's ankle, biting lightly at the skin there. Sherlock froze, his breath locked in his chest. John smirked against his skin and repeated it to the other ankle over his other shoulder. In such a manner he worked all the way up Sherlock's legs, as far as he could bend his body down and reach, that is, until Sherlock was a quivering mess beneath him, begging at the top of his lungs to be bitten harder or slapped or _anything_ to get John to let go of his cock and let him come!

"John, I said hurt me, not tickle me to death!" Sherlock groaned, bucking his hips in an attempt to get the doctor's fingers from being clamped around his member. It didn't work.

"Sherlock," he grumbled, low and deep. Sea-glass eyes snapped to his own dark blue ones instantly. John let go of is cock, but didn't touch it further. He maintained the shallow thrusts and grinding into Sherlock's arse, angling up at his prostate just so. "Come for me," he demanded. Sherlock bit his lip hard and shuddered once, going still, a thick puddle forming on his flat belly. John smirked and pushed his thighs into the puddle, adjusting the position.

He sought his own release by drawing almost the whole way out and thrust home in rapid succession, making sure that his own iliac crests ground against Sherlock's bony ischium. He'd have bruises, by god, and have a hard time sitting down tomorrow. Probably for the rest of the week. Assuming he could get out of this bed anytime soon.

John shoved in deep and hard, pulsing a few times before he felt himself release hot and deep in Sherlock's arse. Good; he'd have fun digging that out in the shower later. After the burn set in, that is. Sherlock groaned and lay there limp and tender; utterly used. He tried to scowl at John and failed miserably, only managing to halfway quirk one eyebrow. Ugh. John withdrew and rolled off, slackening into the mattress as he caught his breath for a few seconds.

"Come here," the doctor sighed, rolling to his side and tugging Sherlock along with him, nestling the scrawnier man into his chest. John liked being the bigger spoon; a point that Sherlock made fun of [only teasingly] because of their obvious size difference and the ridiculousness that it would look like to an outsider to see such a short man curled around his long and lanky frame., John would gruffly declare that he didn't care, and would only squeeze Sherlock tighter to him, but secretly, the detective did love being coddled more than being the one _doing _the coddling. The younger man was pouting, arms crossed. He tried not to laugh and ended up failing, covering his mouth as he giggled all the way to the floor. Sherlock had pushed him off the bed! He growled and crawled back up, peppering the piteous younger man with kisses until he squealed, kicking his way out of the bed and striding to the shower, back straight as a rod and a slight limp in his gait. John rolled his eyes and watched him go.

Sherlock stood in his bathroom, waiting on the shower water to heat up while he chewed on his lower lip. _What else can I do? I refuse to ask such as stupid question aloud. "Thanks for the tea, darling. Oh, John by the way, do you secretly want to suck my blood when we fall asleep in each other's arms? No? How about when I'm being a prat?"_ How utterly stupid. He shook his head and climbed into the shower, letting the hot water relax his overworked muscles. A few minutes later, John knocked quietly on the door and came in.

"Want some company?" the doctor asked, peeking in behind the shower curtain. Sherlock glowered at him but relented, moving under the spray a bit further to let the older man in behind him. He needed to get John's seed out of him, but didn't relish the idea of working himself back open just yet; he was still tender.

That was barely a thought in his head compared to the trouble over John. He still had to figure out the crime scene; what the devil was he supposed to tell Lestrade? He couldn't just ignore the body; the inept detective would hound him for ages over it.

He had to think of something, quickly.

* * *

John sensed Sherlock's thought track and decided to head him off. He needed to avoid questions right now; he still didn't want to move. Surely Sherlock would be revolted and force him out of Baker Street as soon as he learned the truth, or heard it, since he was already sure to know to some degree. He stepped a bit closer to the wily man, wrapping his arms around him loosely.

"Here, let me help," John murmured, turning his lover around and tucking his head under Sherlock's chin. He pressed a fervent kiss in the hollow of the taller man's throat. Sherlock tensed a bit, but ultimately relaxed into John's arms as he felt wet hands sliding gently down his back side to cup his arse. John was going to open him up and clean him out; better than having to do it _himself_, he mused.

John trailed a finger down Sherlock's crease, letting his forefinger rest against the recently abused pucker before he pressed lightly, letting the digit slip in. Sherlock whimpered very quietly and swayed into John's body, giving in to the sensations.

Did he really care what John was? If his assumptions were correct…would it make a difference? John had never shown him any undue violence, certainly not any he hadn't asked for either literally or deserved by way of his actions. John would never hurt him, he decided, and therefore it shouldn't make any kind of real difference if he were a vampire. Which he wasn't, because those didn't exist.

Ugh.

Sherlock hated ambiguities.

John now had two fingers sunk back into his wet heat, and the detective stilled, letting the doctor stretch him enough to let the semen leak back out. He whined, getting hard again, but kept his erection mostly to himself. If you discount the fact that it was currently trying to dig its way through John's hip bone.

John laughed gently, pulling back a bit and turning Sherlock so that he faced the wall, his back to John. The doctor placed kisses down the taller man's spine, leaving him trembling. He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

"John?"

"Mmm. Yes Sherlock?" the doctor pulled his face back from Sherlock's shoulder blade, where he had been tracing the line of the bone with his tongue. He rubbed his newly budded erection against the crease of Sherlock's arse, rutting gently, withdrawing his fingers.

"If…if I knew who…_what_ you were…" John froze for a half-second, his breath catching in his chest.

_NO. He couldn't…this can't happen,_ his mind screamed. John decided with what part of his brain wasn't whirring with escape routes to wait Sherlock out. No sense in incriminating yourself before you know the charges.

He remained silent.

"Would you leave?" The younger man barely breathed the question. He couldn't stand the thought of not having John around…_his_ _John_. He'd become too attached. Sherlock held his breath; John had stopped moving, was standing there, seemingly dumbstruck.

"I…um." He said lamely. John didn't know what to do! Was Sherlock saying that he _wanted _him to leave? Surely he wouldn't want a monster living next to him…? "Would you want me to?" he asked, equally as terrified and quiet. He flinched as Sherlock spun around top face him.

* * *

**cliffhangerrrrrrrrr! tell me your damage 0:)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: sorry it's taken so long; school is absolute murder right now but i tried! here's nothing but fluff and then smut and then some more fluff. the information session will be next chapter. see you soon, girls**

**Chapter 5:**

John wrapped a towel around his waist, unable to have this kind of conversation in the shower, naked. He went and sat on Sherlock's bed, waiting patiently. His ears pricked as he heard the water shut off and cautious steps across the cold tile. The younger man peeked out of the bathroom and padded onto the carpet to sit on the bed beside John.

"John-"Sherlock started, but was cut off by a hand up from his doctor.

"Sherlock, be quiet," John whispered, not quite trusting his voice yet. He only half expected the eccentric younger man to talk anyway. He was surprised when Sherlock actually remained silent, head bowed slightly and eyes glued to John's ear. John shifted, facing Sherlock and making the younger man look at him fully.

"Sherlock," he started, twisting his fingers. He sighed, reaching up and rubbing his eyes hard as he formulated the words that he wanted to say to his partner. Nothing came up, so he opted to wing it.

"Tell me…what…you think you know," he began, finally locking eyes with the younger man. Sherlock squirmed, biting his lip before he answered.

"I know that you killed that man. I saw you…in the alley…_kissing_ him. I… why did you do that?" John clenched his eyes shut.

"I wasn't kissing him, Sherlock. I'd never do that to you. Keep going," he pushed.

"You…when I saw you at the scene the next day you were so obvious about it. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that you'd killed him. The problem was how you got rid of the blood and where it went. The easiest solution was that you drained him and dropped the body back off, but then how did you get him under the dumpster? Even drained he was still obese. Then the stupidity started flowing-"

"_That_…what do you mean by that, Sherlock?" John asked, twisting his fingers unintentionally. God, he didn't want to have to leave. He hoped that Sherlock got it wrong, but somehow he knew that the younger man wouldn't he already knew; he just had to say it out loud to accept it.

Sherlock grimaced, not meeting John's eyes yet again. He felt foolish just thinking it…could he say it aloud? "I—well the only thing that came to mind was that you could be a…a vampire," he stammered, looking back at his boyfriend through fringed lashes. John had frozen on the bed, not breathing, nothing. "But I decided that it would be ridiculous…surely these things don't exist? But it fits the facts; blood gone, no wounds, under a several tonne dumpster, nothing else could match without special equipment or aid in some way, and I knew that you were alone," he sped up, trying to explain himself before John could get angry. It didn't seem to work. "Are…are you?" he asked in a small voice. He wasn't afraid of John, like he'd thought earlier, John had never outright hurt him (excepting the few times that he'd either deserved it or asked for it, outside of the bedroom of course) so therefore it really shouldn't matter. But he was…_curious_.

"Sherlock-"

"Just tell me, John. You're not moving anywhere, I'm not going to let you so stop worrying. I just…have to know."

"Then yes, I am. What else do you want to know?" John shrugged, raising his hands and letting them drop back into his lap, totally finished. If Sherlock needed to know after how long he'd kept it secret, how long he'd tip-toed around, then so be it. He could have it.

Sherlock sat still for a moment, taken aback. He hadn't expected John to give in so easily, not with something like this. Suddenly a thousand questions flooded his mind, demanding answers as they kicked around, vying for position in line to be asked.

Instead of asking, he launched himself at John, tackling the older man to the bed effortlessly.

John tensed, sensing the movement a split second before Sherlock made it, before immediately allowing his body to relax and take on the extra weight of the man he loved. Sherlock straightened out above him, pressing his lips to John's fervently before adding the pressure.

Well this was unexpected. He'd thought that the first thing out of Sherlock's mouth would be a request to see his teeth or a demonstration of some kind, but no, he'd literally tackled him with kisses, hands trailing under the towel now to drop it to the floor.

"Sherlll-" he managed between assaults, but to no avail. The younger man rolled them, sliding his hands all over John as the doctor laid on top of him.

"John, I love you." Sherlock kitten-licked at his collar bone, hiding his eyes. "Do you believe me?" he asked in a quiet voice. John stilled and looked down at him.

He put a finger under Sherlock's chin and lifted his face up so that their eyes met. "I believe you," he murmured, leaning down to capture those perfect lips once more. "I love you Sherlock, and I don't ever want to move. That's why I was so scared to let you find out, but I guess part of me just let it happen anyway. I gave you that body as a –gah!" he was cut off by a rather large hand closing over his hip and throwing him upwards, so that he sat on Sherlock's chest now. His erection was bobbing about over the younger man's face eagerly, craving to sink into that flawless mouth. He tugged his length a few times and did just that, angling downwards into the detective's eager heat, swallowing him down whole.

Sherlock's hands roamed over John's arse, squeezing and molding the cheeks in those large hands, swatting playfully before he himself was swatted in retribution. Pale eyes fixed on dark blue and John felt that he was winning a losing battle. Sherlock would let him come then he'd flip him over and bugger the hell out of him, leaving them both exhausted. He couldn't wait, pressing himself deeper down Sherlock's throat, chasing that ecstasy.

And that's exactly how it happened.

The thinner man swallowed John's load happily, suckling the tip for the last drop before rolling them so that he lay on John's belly quite amiably. He swirled his tongue into John's mouth, tracing over his front teeth with the barest hint of tongue before sliding away, down to his collar bones and into the hollow of his throat. John writhed a bit, giving Sherlock the show he knew he loved.

"John,"

"Please, Sherlock, fuck me." John begged, just a bit, just to throw Sherlock over the cliff he was already standing on. With a heady groan the younger man reached to the bedside table, procuring the lube. He activated the tingle additive a bit by rubbing it between his fingers, pressing two lightly to his beloved undead's puckered entrance. John held his breath as the two sank in, up to the second knuckle, squirming a bit to ease the burn. The tingle helped, as did his natural penchant for self-healing, so after the initial breach he was fine, writhing about just as much as before, even pressing down onto those fingers to drive the long thin digits in deeper.

"I'm ready, please," the doctor gasped again, reaching down to tug helplessly at Sherlock's wrist. The younger man complied, reaching for the condom he'd laid beside John's hip on the bed. He rolled it on, adding a bit more lube before positioning himself and driving in a bit fast. He was testing the waters, and John knew it immediately. He clenched his jaw at the intrusion but once Sherlock started thrusting truly, he melted.

"God, you have…such a perfect cock," John breathed, throwing his head back into the pillows as his hands sought purchase on the taller man's sides. He settled for ribs, and clenched there, holding on for dear life. Sherlock's length was just right for grinding his prostate every other thrust, and he did just that, tormenting John to the fullest as he sought his own release.

"John," Sherlock paused, quirking an eyebrow. He'd caught John licking his lips and teeth more than once just now. "If you bit me, would I die? Or become like you?" he asked tentatively, not wanting to ruin the moment.

"No," John started, not really willing to tempt himself with that idea. It was just curiosity, not—

"Bite me when I'm about to come, I want to see what it feels like." He started thrusting again, much harder this time, snapping those bony hips forward as hard as he could to drive them both wild. John held on, practically screaming as he drew Sherlock down so that their chests brushed. He sucked a bruise on the younger man's throat, right over his carotid where his scent was the most divine. He could feel Sherlock's orgasm approaching, and licked a stripe up his neck form collar bone to ear. Sherlock shuddered, hips faltering in their rhythm before he started to come, john pushed up a bit and flipped them so that he was straddling the younger man, sinking his teeth into Sherlock's throat effortlessly, like a knife through a juicy peach. It shoved Sherlock over the edge into the orgasm of a lifetime, and he clutched uselessly at John's elbows as the older man milked him of blood and semen thoroughly.

John drew back as his own orgasm dribbled to a close, making a mess of Sherlock's perfectly clean torso. They'd need another shower.

"God that was…that…"

"I know," john muttered. Licking his lips. Sherlock had the most…peculiar and perfect taste in the world. Not that he'd been unable to _not_ notice his smell, which was perfect enough, but dear _lord_ this was delicious! "How did it feel, then?"

"It felt like you'd injected me with adrenaline and melatonin at the same time, with a more than healthy dose of endorphins. I wanted to push you away and draw you closer; I barely felt the pain at all…was that you?" John nodded. Sherlock slapped a hand to his neck, where no marks were to be felt or seen. "How?"

"My saliva has antiseptics that numb the site, and seal the skin instantly after I'm done. No marks, no pain." He said this grimly, playing with Sherlock's hair as he rolled to his side to face the older man.

"I love you, John, and you really are going nowhere. Not for a very long time."  
"I hope not," John added, tilting his head a bit to press a kiss t the younger man's temple.

* * *

**ps-i'm sorry if this was trashy and/or had lots of typo's, i didn't have a chance to thoroughly re-read it, just a quick skim before i slapped her up. sorryyyyyyyyy**


End file.
